Ruined
by Krys33
Summary: “No. You can’t. You can’t get rid of my nightmares, Wash. They’ve been around a lot longer than you have.” He sighed, scooting imperceptibly closer to her. “Maybe that’s true. But maybe I can make them hurt a little less.” [WashZoe, Preseries]


**Disclaimer: **Not mine, but oh how I wish it was. The obnoxiously long, rambly A/N below _is_ mine, though, and I apologize in advance for the length.  
**A/N: **Oh dear God, it was bound to happen. I think this'll be a two-parter, at least. Because there's more that needs to be told here. I'm worried about my characterization, though, not so much with Wash as with Zoë. I know that I'm trying to accentuate the vulnerable and this _is _preseries, but I'm scared I may have relied a bit too much on the fact that she's _different _with Wash to justify slight OOC-ness. So concrit/feedback on my characterization would be just shiny! With that said, enjoy!

* * *

It was on the fourth evening she spent in his bunk that Wash awoke in the middle of the night. For a moment it seemed as if nothing had prompted it, but when he listened hard, he noticed that Zoë's breathing wasn't deep and slow, as one would expect from a sleeping form, but shallow and even slightly labored. He propped himself up on his elbow, resting his left hand on the shoulder of the woman beside him.

"Zoë?" His voice was soft and tinged with worry.

Wash could feel her shift beneath his touch, but she didn't turn to face him, and she didn't reply. He sat up a little higher and moved his lips closer to her ear, his voice stronger now, but no less worrisome. "Zoë, baby…" Moving his hand, he brushed her hair back from her face to find that she was crying.

This forced Wash into a slightly surprised silence, because crying was something he'd never seen Zoë Alleyne do before. He'd seen her do a whole plethora of other things, certainly, things he hadn't seen other women even attempt. But crying… crying was something he hadn't even thought Zoë capable of until this very moment.

After a few seconds, he regained composure and replaced his hand on her shoulder, giving it a gentle tug. Zoë, however, ignored his obvious hint remained motionless. Wash ran his hand soothingly down her arm and back again, speaking softly as he did so. "Zoë, look at me." She didn't respond, and he gave her shoulder another gentle pull. "Baby, please look at me."

He could hear her take a deep, steadying breath before rolling over slowly to face him. The look in her eyes, the mixture of loneliness, sadness, and fear swimming in the brown nearly broke his heart. Reaching out, he placed his palm flat against her cheek and used his thumb to wipe a tear from her skin.

Zoë knew he was waiting for her. He wanted her to tell him what was causing her this terrible pain because he wanted to take it away.

She knew that. And she wanted him to. But she wasn't sure if he _could_.

Tearing her eyes from his, she whispered a soft, "It's nothing."

Wash shook his head. "Doesn't look like nothing, _bao bei_."

Zoë pulled her face from his hand, trying not to shudder when the cool air hit her cheek. "You can't fix this, Wash."

"I can try."

At this, she turned back to him, locking their gazes. In his eyes was a look of utter seriousness, a look that was nothing remotely close to the joking, laid-back, boyish glint usually residing there.

And that frightened her, a little.

"No. You can't. You can't get rid of my nightmares, Wash. They've been around a lot longer than you have."

He sighed, scooting imperceptibly closer to her. "Maybe that's true. But maybe I can make them hurt a little less."

Zoë sat up a little. "And how do you plan on doing that?"

"By letting you tell me about them."

She shook her head. "No. No, I can't do that."

"Why not?" And her gaze was elsewhere again, searching the room for something, anything, to look at that wasn't the deep, inquiring blue. "Zoë?" She finally met his eyes again, and found that she couldn't look away this time. His voice was softer, gentler now. "Why not?"

"I just _can't_, Wash." Zoë hated the pleading tone creeping into her voice. She hated how needy it made her sound.

"You _can_. But you _won't_."

"I want to, though. Isn't that enough? I _want _to. But I can't tell you, Wash. I can't."

"But _why_, Zoë? Why ca-"

"They'll ruin you, too." Her voice was quiet, but it was strong, and her eyes were now downcast.

Wash ran a hand over his face. "Is that what you think?" He was quieter now, his tone less pressing, less prying. "You think they've ruined you?"

"They have, Wash!" Zoë's gaze shot up again, and he saw what he thought may have been the start of tears glinting in her eyes, but it was gone before he could be sure. "They won't let me forget what I've done, what a horrible person I am."

Before she'd even finished her sentence, Wash was shaking his head. "No. No, no, no, Zoë. You're _not_ a horrible person."

"I've killed people, Wash. People who had lives and families and friends."

"You were fighting for what you thought was right."

"And that makes it okay?" She was sitting up straight now, back against the wall and knees curled up near her chest.

"You did the right thing." Wash sat up against the head of the bed as well, legs spread out in front of him. "And _that_ makes it okay."

"Doesn't _feel_ okay, Wash." Her voice was quiet again, eyes in her lap. "The screams and gunblasts and smell of death… Doesn't feel okay."

Without hesitation, Wash slid across the pillows until he was sitting next to her. Slowly, tenderly, he wrapped an arm around her shoulders. Zoë rested her head against him, grateful for his presence, and let out a sigh against his neck.

"You don't have to tell me." The sound of his voice startled her slightly.

Zoë took a deep breath, letting it out in a long exhalation before replying softly.

"I think I do."

* * *

**To Be Continued  
**


End file.
